"The Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court ruled Wednesday that a law used to charge a Green Line rider with taking up-skirt photos of women in 2010 did not apply in the case because the women did not have any expectation of privacy in a public place."
It’s funny what I consider nightmares. It’s not Vampires or zombies or serial killers. I’ve been routinely defeating those in my sleep since Middle School. I’ve been a lucid dreamer at least that long. It is not even those dreams where an ex-lover has become possessed by a demon, or turned into vampire or zombie, or infected, and I must kill him or them and dispose of the body using only the things I can find in X room of a house. Unpleasant, es, but I’ve been doing that since I got serious about martial arts back in… ‘91, I think? I do not have the classic anxiety dreams, or at least they aren’t about anxiety. I consider a test I haven’t studied for a fun and interesting challenge. Nude somewhere not socially acceptable? See Lucid dreamer. I either insist this is a nudist location or invent clothes for myself. Not enough money? Clone more. Somewhere I don’t enjoy or want to be? Leave. It’s just a dream.
No, a true nightmare is a dream that feels like a kick to the gut emotionally. A quiet, polite conversation with an ex lover with a line or lines that feel like having the wind knocked out of me. Last night, it was all my Corvallis friends and I breaking in to the house of the Mother of my dead soldier to hold “an anniversary wake.” He’s been dead longer now than I knew him alive, and he killed himself in early April, not March. In the dream we ate cake and drank vodka in her garden. Of all the people I knew then, only one peripheral person is left in my life. The rest blew away like leaves.
It’s the storage unit doing it, of course. It’s giving away nearly all of what’s left of my Oregon clothes. It’s washing and folding my gi to store again because it is something that should never be worn as a costume and that’s what would happen to it at Goodwill most likely. It’s the box of old writing and mementos I’ve already found and the other one waiting for my deeper in the unit with letters from dead boys and lost boys and family I no longer have.
Over the years, I have culled brutally, but sometimes it is important to keep objects to remember, nay prove who we were once.